


Please Pick Up Your Order at the End of the Bar

by Crowgirl



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade "Missed Connections" Fic Dump [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Coffee Shop Owner Castiel, Coffee Shops, Dean Thinking, Feelings, First Meetings, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Missed Connection, Non-Chronological, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, Personal Ads, Reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3634218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘A triple latte. With honey.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Regular Coffee

‘D’you mind?’

Castiel glances up, mind still completely on his reading: ‘What?’

The man standing opposite Castiel’s table has his hand on the back of the other chair. He gestures, carefully, with his full coffee cup to indicate the rest of the seating area. ‘You’ve got the only free chair.’

‘Oh...’ Castiel looks around and, yes, the man is completely right. He’d arrived so early -- just after opening at 7 am -- that he hadn’t noticed the tables filling up around him. Even the tall chairs at the wooden counter along the window are all taken and those are always the last to go. For all that, the room is pretty quiet; a lot of people are plugged into their laptops or phones, earbuds in, frowning at their screens. 

He glances over at the counter. Ellen’s rearranging the food case, doing whatever magic she does that make day-old croissants sell like oven-warm ones. Ruby’s pulling shots, chatting with the young woman at the register at the same time. Ellen and Ruby had been the opening crew on Thursdays for months now and today they’d kept his au lait topped up so silently and effectively he hadn’t even noticed. He really owed them a raise.

‘So...d’you mind?’ There’s a slight grating noise and Castiel looks back to see that the man has slightly pulled out the chair his hand is on.

‘Oh -- no, no, go ahead.’ He waves at the chair and tries not to be distracted by its sudden occupation. He looks back at his book, refocuses on the paragraph he’d been in the middle of -- but part of his brain now knows that a stranger is sitting across from him and he can’t decide whether to try and engage in polite small talk or just ignore the man until he -- inevitably, since Castiel has no plans to move until at least mid-afternoon -- goes away first.

As the minutes tick quietly by, though, he can’t resist; if he shifts his head just slightly, he can glance up at the man without moving his head. 

The man has slung a worn black leather jacket over the back of his chair and pulled a small tablet from some pocket. He’s sitting a little sideways in the chair, one elbow hooked over the top of the back, legs crossed loosely at the knee, thumbing through something on the tablet. As Castiel watches, glancing quickly back down at his own page every time the man moves, the man evidently finds what he’s been looking for and starts reading more intently. 

The man’s free hand is curled around his mug of coffee, thumb playing idly with the top of the handle. The mugs are hand-thrown pottery -- an indulgence of Castiel’s from when he first opened and a friend of his, Pamela, had been in a pottery phase -- and the top of the handle has a little wing of ceramic, meant to be a comfortable place for a thumb to rest on. 

Even when Castiel looks down, he can still see the man’s hand out of the corner of his eye, the thumb circling gently around and around the top of the handle, smoothing down the slightly rough texture of the handle itself, running back up to the-- _Stop it,_ he tells himself firmly. His mouth is going dry and it’s just a _mug._

He takes a sip of his own coffee and notes that Ellen must have slipped him a completely fresh cup at some point -- this has a shot of the lemon syrup he loves that Gabriel can only be bothered to make up every few months. 

‘That good, huh?’

Castiel looks up sharply and the man is smiling at him. ‘What?’

The man nods towards his cup. ‘The coffee. Is it that good?’

‘All our -- their coffee is good,’ Castiel says. He really thinks this -- he’s not talking like an owner here. He’ll admit it’s all more or less what _he_ likes to drink, but enough people seem to agree with him on what’s good that he’s been in business for four years.

‘This is pretty awesome,” the man agrees, tapping the side of his own mug. ‘This is one of the only places around here that serves more African than South American beans.’

That’s a deliberate decision on Castiel’s part, but not one he had really expected anyone except the occasional coffee critic to notice. When he’d started planning this place, he’d done a sort of apprenticeship with a local roaster. He still didn’t understand roasting very well but he had learned which beans he liked and why. ‘You prefer African beans?’

The man shrugs. ‘I like the darker stuff -- Kenya, Rwanda -- the South American never seems strong to me. It always tastes watery.’ He flashes Castiel a sudden grin. ‘Plus my ex loved the stuff. I think I’ve got some kind of psychological aversion to it ‘cause he brewed it so much.’

Castiel’s mouth is dry again. He blames the lemon syrup; Gabriel should really tone down the sugar in the next batch. Blaming it on the smile still lingering at the corners of the stranger’s mouth -- a pleasantly wide mouth at that -- would be ridiculous. Castiel isn’t ridiculous.

During his moment of silence, the man clearly decides that they’re now in a conversation and stretches a hand over to tap the top of Castiel’s page. ‘Anything good?’

Castiel flips the cover shut on his hand. The man cranes his neck so he can read the title and mouths it over to himself. Castiel fixes his eyes on the table.

‘Barbara Tuchman. I don’t think I’ve read anything of hers.’

‘She’s a historian -- kind of like Alison Weir, if you’ve read any of hers,’ Castiel says, flipping the book back open and smoothing over the page with his hand. It’s just a used copy but it’s in pretty good shape.

‘Oh, I know her. Henry VIII -- quite the piece of work.’

Castiel nods, then nods to the man’s e-reader. ‘Fair’s fair -- what are you reading?’

The man chuckles and tilts the screen towards Castiel. Castiel squints but the lighting above is wrong and all he can really see is a blue-greyish smear. ‘I can’t make it out.’

‘It’s just a collection of old horror stories.’ The man slides the reader onto the table and picks up his coffee, cradling the mug in both hands. ‘All public domain stuff. Pretty good, though.’

‘If you enjoy it.’

The corner of the man’s mouth quirks up and Castiel _has_ to stop watching his lips so closely. He forces himself to take a sip of coffee and then refocus on the man’s eyes. The only problem with this strategy is that his eyes are friendly, a deep green with flecks of gold and brown and -- and now he’s staring at the man’s _eyes._

‘You wouldn’t?’

‘No, I probably would. No, I meant enjoying it is the most important thing.’

‘You enjoying this?’ The man nods towards the Tuchman hardcover between Castiel’s elbows.

‘Yes. I started it for a class but I didn’t finish in time.’

‘You’re a student.’

Castiel shrugs. ‘Sometimes.’ He’s been a part-time master’s student for the past three years. Two years ago he had thought he might really get to submitting his thesis proposal and starting research -- but then Tessa wanted to sell out her half of the coffee shop and Zach had decided he was finally ditching East for West coast and -- it just hadn’t happened.

‘Yeah, me, too,’ the man says, apparently unfazed by Castiel’s drop into silence. ‘I used to come here to study all the time.’

‘Really?’ Castiel looks up at him again. ‘I don’t remember seeing you.’ 

‘You’re here a lot?’ The man settles back against his chair and Castiel catches a glint of something against the placket of his long-sleeved shirt. It’s a tiny charm on a long leather thong; he can’t see what it is. Maybe some kind of mask? It’s dark bronze but gleams with the kind of shine that jewelry worn daily gets from rubbing against skin and cloth. Castiel wonders absently if the charm is warm to the touch.

‘Hey. You okay?’ There’s a tap on the back of his wrist and Castiel nearly chokes on a mouthful of air, the necklace gone from his mind. The man’s fingertips are on the back of his wrist, almost hot against his skin.

‘Yes, I -- I’m fine. Sorry.’ He brushes his fingertips over the man’s knuckles in an attempt at a reassuring _I’m not crazy you can let go now_ gesture but the man’s touch lingers for a moment longer before he pulls his hand away. _Ex -- he said his ex \-- oh, for God's sake, stop it._ ‘And, yes, I am here...quite often.’ He’d been the opening crew pretty much on his own for about six months after Tessa left, until he hired Gabriel. 

‘Yeah, I know.’ The man sits back, taking a long drink from his cup.

‘You...do?’

‘Yeah. You don’t remember me but I remember you.’ The man’s smile is no less something Castiel wants to put in his pocket now. ‘You used to work behind the bar, right?’ He jerks his head towards the counter. ‘About a year ago. I used to come in early on the way to work. You make a hell of a latte.’

‘I --’ Castiel pauses, stops, narrows his eyes at the man. Early. There weren’t that many early customers; the morning rush started around eight. But-- yes, always before seven-thirty. And smiling -- that smile and those _freckles._ At quarter past seven in the morning. ‘A triple latte. With honey.’

The man grins, leans forward slightly as if sharing a secret and Castiel finds himself leaning forward. ‘The syrups are all too sweet.’ The tip of his tongue brushes over his lower lip and Castiel feels himself mimic the gesture and sees the man’s eyes flick down briefly. ‘Honey’s always nice and warm -- a little spicey.’ He shifts to rest his forearms on the table, locking his fingers around his mug. 

Castiel nods numbly. He had gotten into the habit of warming the honey with the milk; the honey and the milk melted together and he was sure it made the drink taste better. Even more sure after he’d made himself one -- just to see what it was like -- and realised that the Ethiopian blend espresso he had been using that week tasted _incredible_ with the touch of honey. He’d kept that roast on for an extra week. ‘You always took a sip before you left.’

‘Couldn’t resist.’ The man’s smile is warmer now, something just between the two of them and Castiel is willingly helpless before it. 

‘Why -- did you stop coming in?’

The smile fades a little. ‘Schedule changed. I was coming by at night instead of in the morning and--’ The man stops himself but Castiel could swear he hears _and you weren’t there_ hang in the air between them. That has to be his imagination. Things like this don’t happen in real life -- the handsome customer lusting after the barista is something in porn, like the hot pizza delivery guy. 

‘Anyway.’ The man drops his cup back on the table with a sharp tap and stands up. ‘Thanks for sharing. I’ve --’ He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got to get going.’

Castiel feels the urge to stand up, offer his hand, say they should do it again sometime. ‘I -- I hope you will -- you should stop by again. We -- we -- still have nice honey here.’ And if they don’t now, he’ll make sure they do before the next day.

‘Yeah? You’ll make me one like you used to sometime?’ The man swings his jacket on and pauses, hands in his pockets. ‘’Cause that other guy who worked here wasn’t nearly as good as you.’

Castiel has to think for a minute before he realises. Zach. Zach had worked mornings with him for about two months before he left for the coast. ‘He’s gone -- he moved to California months ago.’

‘Oh.’ The man shifts his weight from foot to foot and adds, ‘I -- I’m sorry. You and he -- seemed like you were close.’

Castiel stares at him for a minute before realizing what he means. He and Zach had been on and off and on and off and then finally off for so long that it’s sometimes hard to remember they were ever on. They had kissed once behind the counter. Once. And now Castiel devoutly wishes he could go back and smack himself for it. And Zach, too, just on principle. ‘Not that close. He left when his boyfriend got a job out there.’

The man nods and, before Castiel can decide whether or not the sudden glint in his eye is pleasure or amusement or _please stop talking_ or what, he’s gone. No goodbye, no _see you later,_ no nothing.

* * *

Castiel doesn’t admit to himself -- or to Ellen or to Ruby although he thinks she guesses something’s up -- what he’s doing when he comes into the shop regularly at opening for the next two weeks. It’s not like he has any other pressing appointments and, in the hours before about ten, he can get most of the paperwork for the cafe done and out of the way. He’s set on his ordering for the next month, asked Gabe to make lemon syrup with more lemon and less syrup next time, tested out muffins from his baker until he never wants to see another cranberry, and even cleaned his office down to the desk drawers.

He pulls a few hours behind the bar every morning, like it’ll be some magic spell for making the man come through the door. It isn’t, of course, and then there’s the morning where he has an early dentist appointment and the next day it seems like a real treat to sleep in and then there’s the weekend and then-- 

He doesn’t make it back to the cafe before noontime for a week.

He comes in one evening on his way home, wanting a hot chocolate and some of the sugar cookies that came in yesterday. After a day in the case they’ll be slightly stodgy and make perfect dippers for the drink. He makes the hot chocolate himself, steaming the milk just a bit too hot the way he likes it and sprinkling grated dark chocolate over the top. 

‘Hey, boss,’ Ruby greets him cheerfully, pulling the mop bucket of bleachy water behind her out of the kitchen. She’s got her long dark hair pulled back; he can tell what time it is in the shift by Ruby’s hair. By the end of the night, it’s always in a sloppy ponytail.

‘Hello, Ruby.’

‘Hey--’ She plants the mop in the bucket and leans on it. ‘Have you checked out the bulletin board lately?’

He glances over at the board. It’s near the front door, a fairly large one. This is an active neighborhood and the space is usually covered. ‘No.’

‘Oh.’

‘Why? Is something wrong? You know you can take down anything--’

‘Oh, no, no, nothing like that.’ She pulls up the mop, lets it drip, and plops it on the floor with a wet squelch. ‘Just thought -- maybe you should take a look. Y’know. Keep up on local news.’

Castiel puts a top on his hot chocolate and stuffs the cookies into his backpack. ‘All right.’

He pauses by the board and gives it a brief once-over. There’s the usual row of business cards at the top: local salons, a convenience store or two, handymen, a couple of ambulance-chaser lawyers, a pet-sitter, two or three babysitters. Then there are fliers and posters, most either handmade or fairly amateur printing jobs: a new weekly reading group at the branch library two streets over, open mic night at a bar across town, someone’s lost cat.

Ruby’s very good about keeping the outdated stuff out; there’s an oversized index card with her neat printing on it in one corner: ALL ITEMS MORE THAN TWO WEEKS OLD WILL BE REMOVED / ALL DATED ITEMS WILL BE REMOVED THE DAY AFTER THEIR DATE and a curlicued smiley face.

Just above her card, though, is another card. It’s the same dimensions, bright orange and unlined except for three lines in an even hand. Castiel is halfway through it before he realises what he’s reading and nearly chokes on a sip of chocolate. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ruby pause to look at him, then return to her steady mopping.

 **I hear this place still has the best honey around. You still make the best latte?** and a phone number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the books our two lovely lads are reading...
> 
> Castiel: Barbara Tuchman, _[A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous 14th Century](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/568236.A_Distant_Mirror)_
> 
> Dean: Wildside Press, _[The Gothic Terror Megapack](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24748225-the-gothic-terror-megapack)_


	2. Extra Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The porny bit.

When Dean finally slides home inside him, flush against Castiel’s back from thighs to shoulders, Castiel momentarily forgets how to breathe.

He can feel Dean pulled tight against his skin, Dean’s hands pressed close over his ribs and belly, holding him. He can feel Dean breathing against his back, the press of the other man’s skin too close and not close enough at the same time.

Dean swallows, takes a deep breath, and the movement is enough to rock him slightly in and then slightly out of Castiel’s body, the slide enough to make his vision grey slightly at the edges. Castiel grips the edge of the counter and pushes his ass flush against Dean’s hips. 

With the tiny part of his mind _not_ completely stunned by the feeling of Dean against him, around him, _in_ him, he thinks that he must look more than a little ridiculous: jeans puddled around his ankles, boots still on, hanging on to the edge of the counter behind the espresso machine for dear life. And then Dean’s hands slide up over his belly, one palm spreading over the center of his breastbone, and he really could care less.

‘I want..’ Dean’s voice is rough in his ear and Castiel twitches involuntarily. He feels Dean shift slightly, pressing his forehead against the back of Castiel’s shoulder and muttering something he doesn’t catch. He clears his throat again and, almost as if testing, rocks his hips against Castiel's, just enough for Castiel to feel the shift.

‘... _fuck_...’ Castiel hears himself say and he’s sure there was more than that: something about how the last two years have been incredible and how even the times he was so angry at Dean he couldn’t see straight he had been so fucking in love with him at the same time--

‘I...’ Dean swallows and tries again. ‘I want to fuck you ‘til you come. And... and then fuck you hard again. ...’s...is that...can I...’

Castiel whimpers and grabs Dean’s hand, the one over his heart. He winds their fingers together, palm to palm, tight enough to hurt. 

‘Please...Cas, tell me it’s...tell me I...’

‘Dean...yes...I...’ Castiel hauls up something that’s meant to be a chuckle but he thinks it sounds more like a groan instead. ‘...I don’t know if I...if I can but...’ Dean rocks out and in again, out and in, out and in, and his free hand slides down over Castiel’s hip, just teasing the base of Castiel’s cock with his fingertips.

‘’s’okay...’ Dean brushes a kiss against the side of Castiel’s throat and Castiel thinks he might start to cry. ‘I’ll get you there.’


	3. Foam

Dean pauses outside the door, pulling down the sleeves of his jacket, checking for his wallet, his keys. He stands for a minute, pretending to think about where to go next when really he’s waiting to be sure he’s not going to turn around and go back in.

 _You’re crazy, Winchester,_ he tells himself firmly and turns himself firmly down the street towards his apartment. And if there’s a tiny tinge of disappointment about the fact Castiel doesn’t come running out after him -- well, he’ll blame his kid brother and those friggin’ Disney movies he loved so much from ages five to nine.

Obsessing over the coffee shop dude. Does it get any more pathetic than that? 

He shakes his head at himself and shrugs slightly against the breeze. It’s sunny but the wind coming off the river is still a little cold. The warmth from the cup of coffee is fading pretty fast and he wishes he’d gotten a cup to go.

But that would’ve meant staying in the shop longer and having those blue eyes on him longer and that -- would not have ended well.

He’s pretty sure “But, officer, you don’t understand -- I have this medical condition -- yeah, it's called extreme crushitis and it just _exploded!”_ wouldn’t keep him out of jail. Plus he’d end up banned from what is honestly the best coffee shop in town -- surely the best within easy walking distance of his apartment. He’s no better at brewing his own than he was before Jesse bought him that fancy hand-grinder and brewer set up.

The coffee guy’s face floats up in his mind’s eye and he rolls his eyes at himself. Yeah, sure, okay, so having the hot coffee shop guy make him coffee every morning is just about the most embarrassing spank bank entry he’s _got_ but -- it’s there. He doesn’t even know the guy’s _name_ \-- well, okay, yes he _does_ as of today because he heard one of the two women behind the counter ask the other if she had refilled Castiel’s cup lately and the second woman made a joke about getting him to come back behind the counter and do it himself since he thought he pulled such good espresso.

So -- Castiel.

It’s weird name, he’ll admit that, but he really wants to know where it’s from -- maybe it’s a family name? or his parents were like New Agers or something and it describes the color of his aura or some shit? Dean wants to hear the whole goddamned story told in that low, slightly throaty voice. Told to _him._

The name doesn’t matter anyway -- he could be named after a serial killer and Dean would still think he had a fuckable mouth. Dean grimaces at himself -- that’s not the kind of thing he usually thinks about someone he’s not actually with but -- well, there’s a reason he’s been going to the same coffee shop on a daily basis for over a year and the reason has shaggy dark hair, careful hands, and a mouth Dean’s pretty sure he could get lost in. Or with -- or -- fuck, he just _really_ wants to kiss the coff--Castiel. 

At least, that’s where he’d like to end up. Or start. Or possibly end up starting. Or something. He’s not sure but he’d like to work it out -- and he’d like to work it out _with_ Castiel. Cas. That sounds better.


	4. Fresh Grounds

Dean pauses a step or two away from the coffee shop door -- _The Winchester Measure_ is carved into a neat wooden panel that makes up the top half of the door -- and feels for the card in his pocket. He knows it’s there but -- if it’s still there then he has to go through with this.

It’s there so he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes briefly, sends a prayer to any deity who can be bothered to listen to it, and pushes the door open.

The first thing he notices is that Castiel isn’t there. He hasn’t been there any of the last times Dean has psyched himself up to stop in for coffee. He’d meant to go back the next morning -- the _very_ next morning but-- He hadn’t. He’d woken up miserably sure that he’d made an idiot of himself, convinced that what he’d thought was warmth in Castiel’s eyes was just confusion and politeness. When he walked by the shop that morning Castiel was behind the counter, laughing with the older woman who had been working there the day before and Dean couldn’t make himself push the door open.

He’ll admit to having peered in the wide window that makes up half of the wall around the corner a couple of times after that. Castiel had been behind the counter alone once, talking to an older man leaning on a dolly. Another day he’d been shuffling through loose papers spread out on one of the tables. 

There’s a young dark-haired woman behind the counter today, perched on a stool, a notebook and a tablet in front of her. She glances up as the small bell above the door tinkles and smiles at him. ‘Hi. What can I getcha?’

Dean takes a quick, covert glance around -- Castiel definitely isn’t here. There’s a couple sitting at the table in the corner of the window, holding hands around a pot of tea. There are the usual students scattered around the other tables and most of them don’t even look up at him.

‘Uh -- yeah, I -- coffee.’

The young woman gives him a slightly odd look as she slides off the stool. ‘Yeah, we can do that. Got anything particular in mind?’

‘Oh -- just black coffee. Large, please.’

‘Sure.’ She flips a large cup off the stack with a practised flick of the hand and fills it from one of the air pots along the back counter. She turns around and slides the cup across to him. ‘Two fifty.’

He fumbles the bills out of his pocket and pulls out the orange index card as if he’d forgotten it and just happened to pull it out along with his money. ‘Oh -- uh -- hey, you guys have a bulletin board, right?’

‘Yeah.’ She points. ‘By the door.’

He turns and pretends to see the board for the first time. ‘Is -- can I put this up?’ He waves the index card at her.

‘Let me have a look at it.’ She holds out a hand.

‘Uh--’

She tilts her head slightly. ‘You’re the guy who was in talking to Cas last week, aren’t you?’

‘Um.’ Christ, why had he started this? Why hadn’t he just walked in like a normal person when Castiel was there and said, _Hey, we had a nice conversation the other day -- wanna get a drink?_ Tahdah -- easy! ‘Yes.’

She eyes him for a minute then sticks out her hand. ‘Ruby.’

‘Okay. 'm Dean.’ He shakes her hand gingerly.

‘Tell you what.’ She props her hands on her hips. ‘I’ll spot you the coffee if you put that up right now.’

‘What?’ 

She nods at the steaming cup. ‘Free coffee. For the card.’

‘But --’ Isn’t that what he’d asked to do? Is it that painfully obvious he’s on the verge of glancing at the card and saying _oh, wow, I picked up the wrong card -- haha -- never mind!_

‘I’ll let you in on a secret.’ She leans forward, planting her palms on the counter, and he leans in, too. ‘Those cookies in the case there? The sugar ones?’

He glances sideways. ‘Yeah?’

‘They’re Castiel’s favorite.’

‘So -- I should buy him cookies?’ And since when had this become some sort of conspiratorial thing between him and this woman he just met?

She shakes her head. ‘No. It means he’ll be in later to snag a few. So--’ She flicks the edge of the card that’s still in his hand. ‘--you give me that, I put it up, Castiel comes in and -- boom.’ She claps her hands together quietly and stands back.

‘Boom,’ he echoes and -- before he can rethink it for the thousandth time -- hands her the card.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Winchester Measure](http://sizes.com/units/bushel_winchester.htm) is an actual factual real live thing. Or, at least, it was prior to the seventeenth century. In England. If you were weighing out wheat.


	5. Latte Heart

‘So.’ Dean stops outside the door to his building and shoves his hands in his pockets.

Castiel comes to a stop opposite him, hands also in his pockets. ‘So.’

There’s a moment of silence that, once started, seems impossible to break. Despite the tickle of anxiety in the pit of his stomach, Castiel is fairly content to stand here. Even in the acid light from the overhead fluorescents in the lobby, Dean looks good. The light washes him out a little but it also casts him in strong contrast, picking out the line of his jaw and throat. Then again, Castiel thinks, he feels he’s well on the way to thinking Dean would look good in any light. Or in no light at all.

‘Um...’ Dean takes a hesitant half-step forward and stops, one hand out of his pocket as if he wants to reach out to Castiel but doesn’t quite dare. ‘I...’ He bites his lower lip and huffs like he wants to laugh. ‘Do...do you...want to come up with me or...’ He winces as though he’s just said something terrible and goes on quickly, ‘Not -- I mean, just for coffee or -- oh, fuck--’

Castiel has been manfully repressing his desire to laugh but this is entirely too much. He presses a hand over his mouth but Dean starts to snicker and then they’re leaning on each other, laughing hard enough that they end up breathless.

‘I would be happy to make you coffee, Dean--’ Castiel manages to say eventually. ‘But not tonight.’

Dean isn’t quick enough to keep his face from falling but he scrubs a hand over his mouth quickly. ‘Yeah, yeah, no, I -- yeah, another time, I--’

Castiel rides the last of the buzzing energy from the laughter and steps forward, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder and kissing him gently. Dean freezes and, for a brief moment, Castiel is afraid he’s done the wrong thing, misread this entire evening, gotten the whole thing backwards-- And then Dean sighs noiselessly against his cheek and kisses back, his mouth warm and soft.

‘Another time?’ Dean pulls back far enough to murmur against Castiel’s lips.

‘Tomorrow.’


	6. Burned Beans

‘I don’t even know what the hell we’re arguing about!’ Dean throws his hands into the air and turns away, kicking an upholstered footstool out of his way. 

Castiel is too upset to admit that he doesn’t know either. 

It had started over a forgotten grocery list. Castiel was normally the one to run that particular errand, more because he liked chatting with the owner of the market than because he had a burning desire to make sure they got the right kind of cheese. But this morning Ellen had called from the emergency room where her husband had taken her after the fever from the cold she’d been fighting for a week spiked a bit too high. Ruby had been pulling extra shifts for a month and, honestly, Castiel didn’t blame her for not answering her phone. Gabriel hadn’t been able to come in until noon because he was teaching a cooking class Tuesday and Thursday mornings. 

So Castiel had been on his own at the shop until ten which was the earliest the new hire, Adam, could get in. It wasn’t like Castiel regrets the hire -- he’s sure Adam will be fine in a couple of weeks -- but this morning he’d almost been worse than not having any help at all. And the afternoon had been a meeting at the bank with his accountant and a loan manager that he really does not want to think about.

Dean had promised -- he had _promised_ \-- to take the list and do the shopping on his way home from the shop this afternoon. He was pulling four shifts a week at an autobody shop across town -- he hoped it would turn into something more permanent. But the point was that his route home came right past Singer’s Market and yet _some_ how -- _some-fucking-how_ \-- he had completely forgotten the _entire_ list. 

‘So I _forgot_ \-- I’m _sorry_ \-- I worked a little late, I was in a hurry, I--’

‘Of _course_ you worked late.’ Castiel couldn’t bite the words back.

Dean spins back around. ‘Now what the hell is _that?’_

‘Let me guess whose _car_ it was--’

‘Oh, for fuck’s _sake,_ Cas--’

‘So it _was_ hers.’ Castiel crosses his arms and gives Dean a sour look.

Dean rolls his eyes. _‘Jesus,_ okay, yes. Yes, congratulations, you’re psychic, it was hers.’

Castiel snorts. ‘I knew it.’

‘I don’t get what it _is_ with her! It’s not like I fucked her in the damned car.’

The words are like a bucket of cold water, jolting him out of his seat. ‘Oh but you’ve _thought_ about it!’

Dean groans and buries his face in his hands. ‘No, no, no, no, _no,_ I have _not_ thought about it.’ He glares up at Castiel. _‘You’ve_ thought about it which is just -- fucking weirder than I can say but _I_ have not thought about it.’

Castiel snorts again.

Dean leans one elbow on his knee, shaking a finger at Castiel. ‘There has been _one_ girl, Cas! One! In college! _Six_ fucking years ago! And I couldn’t get it up!’

‘You -- what?’ Castiel blinks.

Dean flushes slowly but surely. ‘Yeah. I didn’t tell you that bit.’ 

Castiel wants to grin -- wants to laugh out loud, in fact -- but he bites it back. ‘You -- couldn’t?’

‘No, okay, I fucking _couldn’t.’_ Dean looks at Castiel for a minute and scowls, then shrugs, looking resigned. ‘You can laugh. I know it’s funny.’

‘It’s -- it’s not _funny,_ I just -- I mean--’

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches and he stares at Castiel for a moment in silence before he breaks out laughing. Castiel tries to keep a straight face, tries to stay angry, but even in just two months he’s learned that Dean’s laugh is damn near irresistible and after a few seconds he stops trying. 

Dean collapses into a corner of the couch and gives over to laughing for a few minutes. He finally drags in a deep breath and wipes tears out of the corners of his eyes. ‘It wasn’t...it...’ He gives over to snickers for a few seconds and shakes his head. ‘It definitely wasn’t my best moment.’

Castiel gets up and crosses the room, perching on the edge of the coffee table across from Dean. He would swear he means to say something sweet and maybe a little racy that will bring this whole pointless thing to an end but when he opens his mouth what comes out is: ‘Well, you should give Jo some warning.’

Dean groans and slumps back against the back of the couch. ‘Jesus, Cas--okay, look--’ He stares up at the ceiling for a minute while Castiel’s heart tries to contract into the tiniest space possible, hurting his chest. Before he can say anything else -- which he thinks later is a probably a good thing -- Dean leans forward and plants his hands on Castiel’s knees. He opens his mouth like he’s going to speak then shakes his head, leans slightly further forward and kisses Castiel. His mouth is warm and tastes faintly of mint and wax from his chapstick.

When he pulls back, Castiel is a tiny bit out of breath and caught in an awkward space between being furious and being aroused. ‘I...Dean...that--’

‘Jo is about as interested in me as nothing at all.’

‘And you don’t want to embarrass yourself again,’ says the last remnants of anger out of Castiel’s mouth.

Dean’s eyes spark for a minute, then he shakes his head. ‘No, I don’t. I don’t want to embarrass myself by being a jackass and pissing off this really great guy I’ve been seeing.’ He runs his thumb along Castiel’s jawline and briefly presses the pad against the center of Castiel’s lower lip. ‘ ’Cause that would be stupid. ‘Cause I think I’m in love with him.’

‘Oh.’ Castiel swallows hard. ‘Oh. I. Oh.’

‘Yeah.’ Dean sits back a little. He looks a little shocked himself. ‘It’s -- uh -- I mean, I didn’t -- it’s not like -- I’m not trying to pull a trump card on you or anything -- if you want to keep fighting, I--’

‘No. No, I don’t,’ Castiel interrupts, pushing himself off the table and kneeling on the couch beside Dean. ‘I really...really don’t.’

**Author's Note:**

> If you came here from the [Long Live the Coffee Shop AU](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Long_Live_the_Coffee_Shop_AU/profile) collection, welcome! This is the first part of a series.


End file.
